


you are a fast explosion and i am the embers

by velificatio



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Body Horror, Child on Child Sex Abuse, Homophobic Slurs, M/M, Magical Realism, Singing, Soul Bond, psychic link
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-11-18 23:57:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11301495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/velificatio/pseuds/velificatio
Summary: “You twist my heart into something violent.” This bond between them was far from a beauty and the beast scenario. There was something dark and ugly inside Blake too.





	you are a fast explosion and i am the embers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jambees221b](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jambees221b/gifts).



> Heavily inspired by Sense8. Contains dialogue from the movie.  
> In Arabic, almakthar means "chosen one"

_the heart is a brief cry of an animal meeting the music of a falling blade._

  ** _In Other Trees Other Songs_ ** , Scherezade Siobhan

 

 

 

Darkness would never be a thing for him to fear.

Bane had grown in the shadows, nurtured on its all consuming ability as surely as he had savagery and violence that was the first language in this world.

Although not yet a man fully in body the days of him being a child were so far back in memory perhaps they only existed as a foolish dream. He knew the stink of an emaciated dead body rotting in the heat, the soreness that came from being torn and taken. How to sharpen his little broken teeth into spikes to wrap around his bruised knuckles with thin cloth. There are men whose blood he wanted to taste.

But there was also another. Someone forbidden, her spirit too kind for this world. She dwelled in a small cell behind Bane’s. Her voice as welcome to him as the rare sounds of rain pouring down from the world above. Mariam was her name. She was heavy with child by now, and Bane feared she and her babe were destined to be torn apart in this hell.

Nothing flourished underground but hatred and decay.

 

+

Mariam was a welcome constant in Bane’s life, someone he’d allowed himself to grow close to. But there was another who, according to Abdul, the prison doctor, fate had decided to bond with Bane.

He first became aware of them perhaps a few years before Mariam had arrived. Bedridden with fever, Bane had laid on his stone cot, twisting and turning. Heat swelled in his chest, stinging and cruel. It soon concentrated over his heart, the feeling so powerful he wanted to scratch and tear off his skin. Blood began to fall from the wound. He did not bother to wipe it away. He lay on his bed, flesh burning until the faintest hint of sunlight peered into the pit.

That morning Bane found he had been branded. Over his heart laid a scar in the shape of a human hand, with all the lines on a palm that was unique to each person. He had seen such marks on other men here, wondered if it was a sign of their sins. A mark of the Devil. But it was not the shape of Bane’s own hand.

“They are the marks of fate.” Abdul told him with weariness in his eyes. “Your soul is entwined with its owner.”

Bane frowned. “I do not want this.”

Abdul had laughed then, with a hard ugliness in his voice. “Then you are wise. Love can vex even the strongest of men. That is also the mark of the only person in the world by whose hand you can be killed.”

Bane had wondered of this, how it was that men could be beaten to the point of hideous disfigurement and yet cling to life until they finally starved to death. It had seemed a cruel trick of some bloodthirsty god.

“You mislead him,” Abdul’s cellmate Daud said. “Do not think this means you are invincible. Man has made it so that death can be brought swiftly to anyone,” He gestured to his crude knife. “One need only use the proper instrument.”

 

+

 

_Mother…_

Black smoke stung his eyes. There was broken glass all over, some of it in his arm. Night was all around him, yet there were lights shining. It had only just stopped raining, he could smell it. Another smell too, like pennies and more smoke.

Still in his booster seat, he was tilted sideways. The side of his belly hurt. _Mother…._

Had a hold on his hand, her thumb stroking back and forth. Red was falling down the side of her face. All over her, like when he’d try to color the sun.

“It’s okay,” She said, soft. “Don’t be afraid.”

Her face was hard to see through his crying. More flashing lights, loud car noises. Mother said _I love you Robin_. Someone opened his door, pulled him out. He cried harder as he was carried away.

Light burst from the car. Then fire. He never heard his mother scream before…

Bane opened his eyes, wiping away a wetness so long ago experienced it felt unreal on his face. Looking around the walls of his hovel, its dirt floor, the bars he had for a door, brought him back to where he truly was. What he’d seen must have been a moment in his _almukhtara_ life.

How he longed to take his knife and cut the memory from his mind. His own mother existed as a shroud, so much so that he could no longer recall her face or voice. This did not trouble him, it did no good for him to spend his time attempting to relive a life that was no longer his.

Nor did he need to experience someone else's.

 

+

Bane held a knife to his chest, wondering if he cut the scar perhaps the bond would be broken.

“That won’t work.” Mariam said gently. She had her child in her arms, rocking them back and forth. “The bond is only broken if they die. We call them our _almakhtar._ ” She went on. “We are destined to love them, and they us.”

“What use do I have for love?” Bane said and to that Mariam had no answer. He looked at her child, curious. Wondering why Mariam’s almakhtar had not rescued them yet.

She noticed, turning solemn. “Her father was not my almakhtar, but we found love regardless. I fled from my true intended to be with him and….now we are here.”

Love had blinded her, and now she and her child were paying the price. That was Bane’s first lesson about love, one he would not soon forget.

 

+

John scooted the pile of mail on the kitchen table down towards the end, carefully sitting his bowl of chicken noodle soup down. He’d made it himself, like he usually did when his dad had been out most of the day and came home too drunk to cook for them. Right now he was asleep on the couch, the TV playing an old black and white horror movie.

He was getting better at cooking, but the stove had stopped working and they didn’t have the money to get it fixed so most of his dinners came out the microwave.

On the TV, two hands had just grabbed a girl and pulled her into the dark. _“I got you!”_

There was a knock at the door. It was pretty late, but John thought it might be one of the street kids he’d let sleep in his room when it rained out and they didn’t have anywhere else to go.

Looking through the peephole he saw one of them, Logan was shivering in the rain.

“Hey John.” Logan said, coughing a few times. “Can I crash with you for the night?”

John was already undoing all the locks on their door. “Yeah but you have to-”

Two men with hockey masks pushed their way inside before he could open the door all the way. They both had guns. John yelled for his dad as he was grabbed, but he only moved a little on the couch.

“I’m sorry John.” Was all Logan said before he turned and ran away.

“Wake up you piece of shit!” One of the men yelled, shoving his dad off the couch. He slapped him until he woke fully.

John’s dad looked to him in fear. “Please, leave my kid out of this. I can get you the money I swear-”

Before he could finish he was hit across the face with a gun. John shook as he watched his dad bleed. “We been hearing the same shit for months Jonathan, you had your chance and now it's time for you to face the consequences.”

“Please,” John had never heard his dad sound so scared. “Please don’t kill us.”

“We’re not gonna kill you, you’re gonna do that for us. And if you don’t I’ll just start cutting your little boy here to pieces one by one.” He looked to the man holding John. “Show him.”

A knife was put behind John’s ear, then slowly lowered, cutting him. He only screamed once before his dad pled for them to stop.

“Okay, okay.” His dad took the gun he was handed. “You’ve got to promise you won’t kill my boy.”

“Our problems not with him, but you. Take care of it and we got no reason to.”

John was crying. “Dad no!” He watched his dad put the gun under his chin. “No, you can’t!”

His dad was crying too. But he was giving John that look that told him it was time to be brave. “I love you Robin. Now close your eyes son.”

No, no no no. He didn’t want to, he couldn’t lose his dad too. But he was too scared not to listen. He shut his eyes tight and jerked when he heard the gun go off.

He was let go but still kept his eyes closed.

“Listen to me carefully kid.” He was being told. “When you call 911 you’re gonna tell them your drunk daddy got too sad with all the bills he couldn’t pay and the house he was about to lose. He just couldn’t take it so he shot himself. Understand?” John was shaken hard when he didn’t answer. “Do you understand?!”

“Y-yeah.” John said, nodding many times.

He didn’t open his eyes until he heard the door shut. John started at his dad, his head blown open like a watermelon. He shook and cried harder, falling to the floor.

Alone, he pressed his forehead to his knees, unable to move. Not even when the blood reached his feet. He sat in the room listening to cars drive by, people arguing, cats, everything going on around him. The TV was still on but he couldn’t leave. He heard a man say:

_“Did you see what I did? Did you see it?”_

 

+

 

Mariam was gone.

Her screams had echoed throughout the Pit for days before finally going silent. Bane had heard the men complaining of how she did not live long enough. Animals in the skin of men had brutalized her to death, as he’d always feared they would.  As he knew they now wished to do with her child, though none knew what Bane was aware of.  That the small bundle of a child, still clutching their knife as they huddled in the corner of his cell was a girl.

He didn’t have to tell her she was dead. When Bane brought her a bowl of food she said. “She’s dead. They killed her.” without a question in her voice. There were deep circles under her eyes from lack of sleep, but she had only allowed herself to cry the first day. Many times she would appear as if she was about to but would pinch herself to stop.

“Yes.” Bane said, soft as he could manage. She stared at him for a long time, her knife still gripped in her hand. She had heard her mother speaking to him often, knew him to a point. But he was still a man in this hole with her and men had just taken her mother.

Mariam used to tell Bane stories from the West of men who devoted their life to a noble woman. Men of the utmost bravery and honor. Hero’s known as knights.

“Talia.” Bane said, and waited for her to look at him. He did not attempt to touch her. “I will not let it happen to you. It does not matter how many of them I’d have to kill. I will not let them take you.”

He could see her hesitation, she knew how many men were down here and Bane was just a man. Not a hero. But she was still a child gripped with fear, desperate to believe something would stand between her and her mother’s fate. She put her knife in her lap, nodding.

Bane could never be a knight, but he would protect Talia nonetheless.

 

+

Opening his eyes to darkness was not unusual for Bane. That was his life. But this time he couldn’t see through the blackness and his surroundings were foreign to him. His hands too small, body too frail. Heartbeat pattering faster than heavy rainfall. He had slipped into a stream once more.

All of his skin felt tight enough to rip in his dread. His breathing  too big for his body. An older boy was prodding at him, pulling away his dressings, he was too weak to stop him. There were others in the room, some of them awake and watching. The boy was cruel, handled him with disgust. _“You made me do this. This is all your fault stupid faggot.”_ It felt as if he were a rat, but there was no corner or tunnel for him to hide in. Bane had felt this fear before but this time it was not his own.

Shameful warmth spread from between his legs, his bedding growing wet. There were laughs then, his hair being pulled and his face yanked into the mess. It seemed to last all night but when the older boy finally left the sky was still black and starless.

Curling into himself, his almakhtar bit his fist to keep from weeping. It ached until morning.

 

+

This was the last time they would see each other. He could not be saddened by this; there was a mission he had to complete. He would help her emerge from this hell, even if it cost him his life.

He had tried to convince the men allowing her to grow would be their redemption. But he had known they were twisted and beyond saving. Now they wished to snuff out the last bit of innocence left in this hole.

They made their way to the wall swiftly but already men were stalking out from all corners to follow them. He hoisted her up, without the rope. Then turned and began the hardest fight of his life.

She was climbing up the wall, higher and higher. She was going to make it out, he knew she could given the chance. It made him fight the men trying to reach her harder. Then she was on a smaller rock, would have to jump high to reach the next one. He held his breath...then she was almost flying.

Turning, she looked down at him one last time. He had promised he would go with her, but knew he couldn’t. “Goodbye.” He said, as the mob of men overwhelmed him, dragging him down into darkness.

John woke up gasping, tears running down his face. His chest hurt right over his heart and he could feel it bleeding. They’d been told about this, when their bodies would be marked with the handprint of their fated. No one had said it would hurt this much. He twisted in his sheets, trying not to make a sound.

Closing his eyes, John thought of the little girl he’d seen, climbing up into the sun. “Talia.” He whispered, and the tears he cried were ones of joy for her freedom.

 

+

John was nine when Bryan first came to his cot. At eleven he finally decided to make sure it never happened again.

Sure Bryan was still older and bigger than him, fifthteen years old. And he was the same scrawny little boy. But John had an anger inside him twice his size and he knew how to hurt someone big. He’d watched other kids do it more than enough times.

So he picked up a rock that wasn’t too heavy, but not so small it wouldn’t hurt. He held it tight, snuck up behind Bryan on the playground, then jumped on his back, tackling him to the ground.

John screamed as he smashed the rock into Bryan’s face. Whenever Bryan would come to his cot he’d bite his lip so hard it bled to keep from crying or screaming, making any sound. Now all the noise pushed out from his mouth as he pounded, pounded and screamed and felt red spitting out onto him.

“I hate you! I hate you!”

He kept hitting him over and over, until someone yanked him off. Bryan wasn’t moving.

They took him to Father Reilly’s office, sat him down while the police asked him question after question. John didn’t answer any of them. He sat in that room for hours after they left him, feeling the blood on his hands and face start to dry.

 It was nighttime when Father Reilly came back.

“Is he dead?” John asked.

He was answered with a sigh. “Come with me John.” And he took them downstairs to the chapel.

Father Reilly probably brought him here because he thought it would scare John. What he didn’t know was John had stopped being afraid of someone living up in the clouds a long time ago, if he was even real. If he was, then John hated him as much as Bryan. How could he let this happen and still say he loved all his children? John was no one's child.

Father Reilly made them sit in the front pews. “I need you to understand just what you’ve done John. Bryan will be kept alive by machines while they try to locate his fated to have them come and finish what you started. If his fated doesn’t want to be involved they’ll have to to end his life.” He leaned in further. “You’re responsible for this, do you understand that? This is a terrible sin.”

John wondered how they might kill him. Kids in his bed section told stories about burying people alive until they ran out of air, or throwing them into water until they drowned. People used to do that to witches, evil people. Bryan fit right in.

“He was bad.” John muttered, fingernails digging into the cuts in his palm. He was crying and he didn’t know why and it made him angrier. “He was bad.”

Father Reilly stopped talking and it grew quiet for a long time. John felt himself being watched and hunched his body inwards, pressing his knuckles against his eyes.

“This isn’t the first orphanage Bryan’s been in. There were troubling stories regarding his time in his previous one...”

It was hard for John to tell if the rush of anger he felt was because Father Reilly seemed to know without him telling or that Bryan was allowed to come here.

“But an eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind John.” He waited until John met his eyes to keep going. “However much Bryan deserved to answer for what he’s done to you, to others, vengeance is not justice.”

“So what should I have done,” John snapped. “Just let him get away with it?”

The look he got from Father Reilly was sad. “You should have come to me. But you didn’t perhaps because you thought nothing would be done.” When John didn’t answer he sighed. “I know life has been hard for you John. But it's never going to get any happier if you have no faith in people’s ability to do good. There are people who want to help you, I’m among them. Think about that.”

John was sent to a different room than all the other boys that night. He still couldn’t sleep, not able to stop thinking about what he’d done to Bryan. Now that he wasn’t angry anymore, he was scared of himself.

Scratching the scar over his heart he thought of the man living in a hole, a shadow eating other people in the dark. When John was in his skin he felt like an animal and animals made each other bleed all the time. It was nature.

He didn’t want to feel that way all the time.

 

+

At 16 John was getting good grades in his classes, but still often found himself in fights with older boys who thought they could push him around. More markers on his juvenile record. He was no longer allowed in St. Swithins, because good little Catholic orphanages didn’t take well to faggots who weren’t up for conversion therapy. It made him even more of a target, both on the streets and in the shelter where he stayed.

Right now he was on a rooftop, watching the streetlights change and cars drive by. Trying not to fiddle with the rips in his jeans or his threadbare shirt he’d been given. And doing something he only did while he was alone. It made him feel safe.

“ _And I kissed away a thousand tears. My lady of the Various Sorrows…_ ”

Other boys used to tease him for singing, but this was hiding place. In stirring lyrics and melodies, turning his pain and anger into something beautiful.

Music soothes the savage beast, so it was said.

“ _And I stacked all my accomplishments beside her. Still I seemed so obsolete and small._ ” He watched his feet hang from the roof as he sang. “ _I found God and all His devils insider her…._ ”

Sometimes he got so sad he thought of jumping, to stop fighting when he was so tired. Then he thought of his fated, the memories he’d seen. He was so resilient, never thought of giving up. A survivor.  John knew he had it in himself to be one as well.

His fated was not alone. Talia was with him. A girl with dark hair, pale eyes. She was a torch in the deepest pit. She had climbed out of hell and now she wanted to change the world. They were somewhere in the mountains training. John wondered if his fated could hear him now.

_“A mock sun blazed upon her head. So completely filled with light she was.”_

John didn’t want to change the world, but he wanted to make a difference in Gotham. Wanted to keep more kids from ending up like him. He had to be strong. So he would.

 

+

According to religious fables almukhtara were created by God as a method of ensuring man could no longer harm his fellow man following the tragedy of Cain and Abel. Bane was skeptical of this, it struck him as short-sighted how no deity could have foreseen how creative men would become to ensure they could kill anyone they pleased.

The art of weaponry became man’s ultimate defiance against the divine.

In this day and age a wound from a bullet, a knife, a bomb could kill anyone just as surely as the hands of your supposed soulmate choking the life from you. As such this aspect of having an almakhtar had lost most if its significance.

It still held meaning for Bane. Early after his rescue from the Pit, he had decided that at some point in the future he would hunt down his almakhtar and end his life. He knew things about Bane only those he trusted had a right to know.

His ambition had been set aside when he was taken into the League, trained in their ways. Bane had aspired to become a warrior worthy of serving Ra’s al Ghul, only to find that by virtue of his past with Talia he would never fully measure up in the man’s eyes. A truth he had accepted but never allowed to hinder his progress.

Having just been excommunicated, now it was time for him to decide what course he would take.

Before he could leave Talia came to him. He leaned down to press his forehead against hers.

“We _will_ see each other again.” She swore.

Bane knew she could tell he was smiling as he made his departure knowing he was no longer the only beast among them. She had sharpened her teeth to match his own, as he knew she always would. Talia would never be someone who needed saving again, but one who led prey towards the promise of salvation and quietly slaughtered them.

 

+

Dreams were often a haven for perverted memories and desires or a false paradise. For Bane there was no true refuge, although his pain was temporarily diluted to numbness when he slept. Often he found himself craving it; the way it made him sharpen his other senses, his instincts to lethal precision. Feeling the full extent of his pain was of course unbearable, no training could allow him to overcome it fully. But feeling just enough, it drove him.

Nevertheless, every beast required slumber.

He shut his eyes and found himself on a rooftop, the night air held a biting cold to it. He was smoking a cigarette, a detestable habit and he swiftly stubbed it out. What he did not attempt to halt were the sounds coming from his mouth, though he had never sung before in his life.

“ _Sunday is gloomy, my hours are slumberless. Dearest the shadows I live with are numberless._ ”

His almakhtar was a songbird, one whose wings had been plucked many times. Yet his spirit could not be stifled, they regrew stronger. In this way he reminded Bane of Talia, however he never allowed himself to entertain the comparison for long. Lest he fall prey to fondness.

“ _Angels have no thoughts of ever returning you.”_

Even so he could not deny the beauty in that voice, nor the way it settled over his skin like warm water. Coaxing him down into rest.

 _“Would they be angry if I thought of joining you?_ ”

There was always melancholy in the songs his almakhtar chose to sing. A means of release and something more. Similar to transcending.

Listening to it, Bane quickly found himself falling into slumber.

 

+

 

John’s most vivid childhood memories were the moments his parents died. Which wasn’t particularly remarkable, just about every orphan old enough to remember when their parents died held images of their passing as alive and potent as a picture colored in with scented markers.

Those were his memories but never truly his alone. There were others he remembered not belonging to himself.

He remembered the first time he strangled a man twice his size. His first time using sexual violence as a weapon of vengeance.

He’d been told the fact that he experienced streaming with his fated prior to developing his lovemark was a rare abnormality. With heavy psychoactive medication, it might have been repressed until late puberty but well, that hadn’t been an option for him.

On the one hand it fucked him up, on the other hand he won way more teenage fights tapping into his fated’s skill set than he would have on his own. Before he finally got his act together.

Visiting St. Swithin's always made him feel at home but also very uncomfortable. He was a role model to a lot of the boys there and he took that responsibility serious. But it always felt part performance, he certainly couldn’t let the whole truth out.

This was strictly professional though. John had been on the GCPD for a little over a year now. As far as anyone on the force knew his only association with St. Swithins was that he coached basketball there. And this was just him following up on lead.

There was talk around these parts of street kids being recruited to pack and distribute drugs to the more white collar members of Gotham social circle. A kind of twisted boys and girl scouts catering to WASP parents.

Possibly one such kid-teenager to be exact, was a recent murder victim found by a sewer drain. Jimmy. John had recognized him right away.

“Jimmy hadn't been here for months.” Father Reilly told him as they walked up the stairs.

There were number of reasons why that could have been the case, as John had learned the hard way. Still most kids weren’t willing to part from having a definite place to sleep at night. “Why’s that?”

“You know why, Blake - he aged out. We don't have the resources to keep boys on after sixteen.”

“The Wayne Foundation gives money for that -” John said, startled.

“Not for two years now.”

He clenched his fist to quell his anger. “He has a brother here, right?”

“Mark. I'll tell him.”

John shook his head. “I'd like to, if that's okay.”

“Sure, but first there’s something I’ve been meaning to give you.” Father Reilly must have seen the unease in John’s expression because he followed that statement up with, “Where’s the Department headed now that the Supreme Court ruled the Dent Act unconstitutional?”

“Heck if I know.” People weren’t even sure if Commissioner Gordon would be sticking around. That leaked speech was as big a career killer as any. Add to that the fact that everyone imprisoned under the Dent Act was being granted release even if they’d been convicted and well, the press was having a field day.

John was at a crossroads himself. The revelation that Commissioner Gordon had based the Dent Act on lies was something he was still struggling to grapple with. Gotham was unlike any other city, its criminals frequently on the extreme side. As such John could accept that they might need laws that pushed the legal envelope to truly have the upperhand. Hell he wasn’t against Batman’s brand of justice, and had never believed he killed Dent.

And could have easily seen an act similar to the Dent Act being passed without making a false idol out of its namesake. It was the fact that the law was made in bad faith that felt like such a betrayal to the very ideals it was founded on.  How did Gordon or Batman expect Gotham to make truly lasting changes if they didn’t trust its own citizens?

Gothamites were a resilient bunch, they had to be. John knew many others like him who wanted peace and justice, but he was no longer certain that the GCPD and District Attorney were fit to provide it.

He sat down across from Father Reilly’s desk. A folder was pushed towards him, and John took one look at the name on top of it and felt sick: Bryan Epson.

“This isn’t what I came here for Father.” His voice was way too shaky as he moved the folder away from himself.

“You can speak to Mark afterwards.” Father Reilly pushed the file back towards him. “But I believe it's very important you read this Blake.”

It was a record of Bryan’s time both in St. Swithins and St. Augustine as well as psychological reports predating his time in the orphanages. What John discovered when he read was a boy with a history of sexual abuse at the hands of his father.

Bryan was as much a victim as himself. At least that’s what his file told John. He didn’t know how to fully accept that, reconcile it with what he’d done to him. The idea of mitigating his responsibility was...John shoved the file across the desk.

“Why would you give this to me?” He said, trying to keep his tone respectful.

“I know you’re doing well for yourself Blake,” Father Reilly put his hands together when John didn’t allow him to touch him. “But there are times I see you here and I can still see that angry, lost boy who sat in the church pews with me. I truly believe forgiveness is the key to healing and I want that for you.”

John clenched his jaw. Father Reilly certainly hadn't been trying to help him heal when he threw him out of St. Swithins after the third time he caught him with another boy. And he certainly hadn't been trying to help him heal when he chalked up John's homosexuality to his sexual assualt and urged him to pray the gay away. “Thank you for your concern.” The words sounded robotic. “I’d like to talk to Mark now.”

Could Bryan have changed with professional help; would he have ever shown remorse or tried to attone? Thanks to John no one would ever know. He tried to put it out of his mind as he headed to see Mark.

 

+

Forty men were lined up on their knees in the grass, disarmed from their weapons. Soldiers protecting the interest of a mining operation Bane sought to place under new leadership. They had attempted to ambush Bane and his men, but had underestimated the size of their force. Fortunately for him, their leader- a would be warlord, had been brazen enough to accompany them.

Tate Industries would be absorbing the company, a pseudonym Talia went by for her work with the League. Even though he was no longer part of their organization Bane’s work here was in service to Talia and by extension the League of Shadows.

As he approached their leader the man spat blood onto him in defiance. “You just made the last mistake of your life.”

Bane crossed his arms. “Looks more like you’re the one who rode up shit creek without a paddle.”

Those were _not_ his words. Closing his eyes he tried to banish the presence of his almakhtar through sheer force of will. He swiftly departed from his consciousness, whether by his own volition or Bane’s efforts he could not say. A brief glance spared at Barsad showed him he was being regarded strangely, however his second trusted him enough to voice any concerns at such time.

“Kill them all.” Bane told him.

He walked away to the sound of rapid gunfire ringing through the jungle. He fixated on that instant when his body had not been his alone. Their connection was growing stronger with time. Eventually, he would need to put an end to it.

 

+

According to Mark, Jimmy had gotten his job at a local laundromat in the Narrows. It took the better half of a week to collect enough evidence to merit a search warrant. John, his partner Ross, and several others were being granted the privilege of getting to head to the most dangerous area in Gotham to execute it. Now for some, that would be more than a little nerve wracking. But John had lived and breathed these streets as a kid. There was no place like home, as they said.

Right away John had a bad feeling in his gut walking into the place. For one it was a late Friday afternoon yet it was nearly dead empty. In this part of the city affordable laundry care was a gift, you could always count on a wait when you headed to _Josie’s._ Except for this particular afternoon.

After shrugging at the warrant, Antonio Falco lumbered outside, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his front shirt pocket. “Ain’t much to find in there. I’m taking a smoke break.”

“I don’t like this.” John told Ross as the few customers were filing out. Although Ross nodded, they were by no means the ones calling the shots on this search. Both of them knew the more senior officers would likely dismiss John’s concerns. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Ross responded with, “Just give it a sec.”

It didn’t take them long to find some of the cookie boxes in the backroom. In fact they were so poorly hidden John would almost call them bait.

“Toss the trash into cells under the Dent Act then you let them out,” Thompson chuckled. “And they’re so gun-ho ready to go right back into dope dealing they do a piss poor job covering their tracks.”

“Ain’t that the fucking truth.” Hunter agreed. “Ross! Collar that Sopranos reject of a store owner.”

“Guys,” John interrupted. “Something’s off about this.”

They both shrugged him off. “Cool it rookie, what is it that time of the month?” The rest of the officers happily joined in their laughter.

Something else was bothering him as they began to package and unload the evidence. In the far right corner of the front room there was a an old dented top loading washer set atop a dolley. Sure it could be explained as an old timer that was finally being replaced but with the front loading models. But given the state it was in it stuck out like a sore thumb even for a place like _Josie’s_.

Moving over, he studied it. There was an odd colorless substance leaking out from the setting buttons. When John leaned in he found it had a peculiar smell, a lingering one. He couldn’t identify it but it alarmed him. Careful not to touch, he went back over to Ross. He had come back inside but was still engaging in a shouting match Mr. Falco, who was sitting in the back of the squad car.

"That washer," John began in a rush. "I think it's a-"

 _Silver, the smell was silver azide._ He might not have known what that odor was, but his fated did.

“Bomb!” John shouted, right when he saw Hunter was about to bump into the washer. It was too late to stop him. “Fuck!” He grabbed Ross and hurled them both towards the front window just as the explosive was triggered. They crashed through the glass with fire chasing their backs, rolling further onto the sidewalk to avoid debris.

“John…” Ross said. “Next time you’ve got a bad feeling, I’m going to listen.”

It didn’t always suck to be right but this was definitely one of those times.

 

+

 

No one would ever accuse Gotham of being a nice city. If you weren’t careful it’d eat you alive and use your soul as a rag to wipe its ass.

Ross tossed back his fourth shot. “We got lucky.” Most of the other cops who’d been in _Josies_? Not by a long shot.

They were in a typical downtown bar, the dimly lit kind that thought letting its interior look like it hadn’t been updated since its inception was an ideal aesthetic. John was feeling more than a tad antisocial, as near death experiences tended to render him. But he’d let Ross drag him down here anyway.

Now he was half-heartedly watching the television. A 30 second news preview was recounting all the salacious details of the latest high profile murder trial.

Ross gestured towards the tv. “That guy in Chicago had multiple fated and was tracking down each of them and chopping them to bits.”

“You know what they say.” John said. “Love makes people crazy.” So to did years of appalling parental abuse as the Chicago perp’s lawyer was touting as an underlying reason for the killings.

It was plausible, but not a fact that amounted to absolution. How many orphans had he met whose life was something out of a horror movie? Far too many, and yet most of them didn’t end up offing folks for kicks and giggles. They lived with the scar tissue, mental and physical yes, but they lived each day on their own terms. They made their own peace, their own happiness because they learned too young life sure as shit wasn’t going to do it for them.

Not unlike himself on his better days.

Ross chuckled. “No one's ever going to accuse you of being a hopeless romantic.”

“I’ve a healthy mixture of optimism and pragmatism on just about all other aspects of life but this.”

In fact pervasive pessimism tended to annoy him. Often treated as some self gratulatory mark of higher maturity. In John’s book it took a lot more strength of character to have a measure of hope than being a walking debbie downer.

“Life handed you a bad apple for a fated didn’t it?”

“It's always that, isn’t it?” John nodded. “You have no idea.”

“Are they really that bad?” Ross ordered them another round of shots. “Well if they are, you don’t have to end up with your fated. World’s full of people, and just because you’re not fated doesn’t mean you’re not compatiable.”

Or #fuckfate as it was tagged on Twitter. It was a current trend in dating popularity but nothing particularly new. Fact of the matter was your fated could live halfway across the planet and in the old days the prospect of finding them was a tall order.

That was before the advent of computers or the international Hands of Fate databases, which collected photos of everyone’s mark and their individual handprints for the purpose of matching fateds. Now it was widely expected that if you found your fated, that was who you stuck with. But John had heard quite a few people who ended up with buyer’s remorse or so dissatisfied with their fateds it wasn’t even worth a shot at dating.

More people were rebelling against the idea that their source of romantic fulfillment was preordained. Tax and insurance benefits that came with marrying your fated be damned. And well, considering what John knew about his fated...

“Let’s just say I’m pretty fucking sure whoever my fated is they have an underground dungeon and collect people’s fingernails ,” John took a long swig of his drink. “And I don’t just mean the ends that you bite off.”

Ross attempted to whistle sympathetically but what came out was more of a garbled spit. “Some Investigative Discovery shit huh?” He sounded like he thought John was exaggerating.

“Believe me I have seen some shit.” And well, he _was_ being misleading. John had never experienced his fated kill for the pure gratification of it. Instead it was always in pursuit of a goal, and to hell with any moral or legal inhibitions that might deter the average person. No looking back either, no remorse or regrets. So unlike himself, who often agonized over his past choices routinely.

Still it was somehow easier to claim his fated was a run of the mill serial killer than a mercenary slash occasional terrorist. That tended to kill the conversation on that aspect of his life pretty quickly.

“All its ever brought me is hell.” John muttered before downing his drink.

Okay, also not entirely true. There were moments John had experienced belonging to his fated that weren’t horrifying. Most of them involved Talia, who couldn’t be much younger than himself. They only served to make him feel more conflicted, fascination waring with a flight response. Not every abused child grew up to become an aggressor, it was a fact often used as reassurance. John hadn’t always lived that truth, the memory of when he ran headfirst into violence was never going to leave.

Neither were the moments he’d shared with his fated. The rush of hot aggression and violent satisfaction when he beat a man who’d violated and tortured him, tore away his dignity and control through brutal rape. John knew intimately the fear and wild helplessness that had been in that man’s eyes. But they were the eyes of predator.

He also knew what it felt like to crave revenge against someone who’d left you so shattered.

This was the side of being fated no one talked about. Knowing another person's soul was so full of rage. Losing sight of where yours began and their’s ended.

“Crowe Street, Southway Drive, Elgin Road.” John muttered the words under his breath over and over, trying to feel less like everyone in the bar was watching him head straight for a breakdown. It was some free coping advice he’d gotten from the police shrink that wasn’t always reliable but better than getting blackout drunk. He shouldn’t have let his thoughts go this far south. Public bleeding was never a pretty sight, physically or mentally.

 

+

On the day Talia had escaped the Pit, the men had beaten Bane so severely he was unable to close his mouth afterwards. Abdul’s various attempts to remedy his condition had resulted in his jaw failing to heal properly. Daud had taken pity on Bane, would cut slits through his bandages to give him water and pieces of food ground down with rocks. Eating was a near unbearable ordeal.  Bane had been on the verge of starving to death when Talia rescued him.

Half a dozen surgeries would follow, none able to fully fix Abdul’s damage to his jaw or take away the constant throbs of pain Bane felt. His use of it was limited to approximately thirty percent its full capabilities. The final mask they’d constructed for him helped align the bones in proper place, with speech-generating devices attached to both his cheeks in order to make his speech coherent.

Bane was only able to consume food in liquid form, usually through a tube inserted through his mask. On certain occasions however, he would remove his mask and attempt to eat using a straw. It was a way of ensuring he never relied entirely on the device for basic survival, and a method of testing how much pain he could endure.

This was one such evening, at his mercenary base in the Guinean forests of West Africa.

Bane could feel himself drifting away from his surroundings, from his solitary place in his mind and knew what it meant.

He had entered the stream. His worn metal chair replaced by the feeling of dry bedsheets.

After this Bane would no longer be restricted to seeing the world through another man’s eyes. He would be able to appear as his own entity, and have a face to pair with this burdensome presence. For now however, they could not see one another, though they were each in their own bodies.

Bane was inside of his almakhtar, which meant he must be lying with another at present. There were the soft lulling sounds of rain surrounding them. The physical pain he felt being without his mask had by no means vanished, adding an element of vulnerability to him he was averse to displaying with this person.

_John thought of the streaming he’d experienced the night he got his lovemark, joy that was soon overwhelmed by pain. He could feel the raised skin of scar tissue around most of the lower portion of his fated’s face. They’d hurt him severely. While the gesture might have been considered pitying, John tried to express with his kiss that he was more in awe that anyone could survive such an injury and still be so formidable. He wanted to taste that strength. Every movement of his lips a high wire between prayer and consumption._

Of course Bane was aware of what a kiss was, but this was forbidden inside the Pit. After being rescued, realizing his purpose as becoming more than a man; a weapon, matters such as “lovemaking” were even more trite to him than they’d been before. An occasional rut was enjoyable enough but sex was by no means a preoccupation on his mind.

This was a means to an end. However Bane felt as though he were beginning to unravel, exposing more than he wished to. When he brought his hands up to wrap around a neck that felt more delicate than it should, they almost hesitated. Almost.

_John froze, the aggression too raw, too much like someone else. Those hands felt strong as a boulder. He breathed in deeply, concentrating on the emotions his fated was feeling: pain, the need for emotional distance, unwillingness to lose oneself completely. But there was another need driving him alone. The want to connect with this man in a way that wasn’t borne out of anguish. It overwhelmed his fear._

**_Crowe Street, Southway Drive, Elgin Road._ **

_He covered those massive hands with his own. “Relax,” he whispered, both to himself and his fated. “Relax, just feel this.”_

Intrigued by the pull of desire warring with instinct he felt, Bane allowed his hands to be lowered. Giving his almakhtar the illusion of complete control. He was much smaller than Bane, but he felt firm muscles and definition under his hands. Not a true warrior, but still a body honed to be constantly ready for defensive violence.

Loathe as he was to admit, there were few secrets between them. This only served to further pique his interest. Knowing what he must know about Bane, taken in with his own experience of sexual victimization, his almakhtar resisted his urge to flee and continued. Unusual...

_His fated’s cock was much thicker than Ross’s and John couldn’t help but moan at the change. He’d yet to hear him speak and knew he wasn’t exactly being given free reign. So he only moved his hand, searching for that place on his fated’s chest. His skin was so smooth, and the hardness underneath was a pleasant contrast._

_Then he could feel his fated’s heartbeat, surprisingly steady. John’s hand fit the scar covering it, as it was meant to. Carefully, he moved one of his fated’s hands to fit over his own scar._

Although he still was unable to see clearly, what Bane saw then of his almakhtar was a manifestation equally blinding. He was so full of light even his darkness shone as if it were the sun.

 

+

Truth was John’s dating history was a catalogue noncommittal one night stands and the occasional unfulfilling several month long relationship. He knew what most people wanted; stability, openness, communication. But he didn't know how to reassure a man who ran up against his hard edges that in time he’d soften for him. He could push that simmering heat of anger that was still alive somewhere deep inside further into a corner. He could smile and play the part of a man who had lived through some tough shit and come out on the other side perfectly well-adjusted. But it wasn’t the truth and whenever he was with someone for long enough eventually they’d see it in his eyes: There was no getting over this.

That night Ross had kissed him with questions on his mouth. _Is this alright? Will we be okay if we do this?_

Apart from realizing Ross was one of the few adults John could call a friend, he hadn’t considered him sexually. Not to say he wasn’t attractive, and he was never overbearing towards him despite being the senior officer of their pair. Even so John had tensed at first, someone making the first move with him tended to end badly.

Ross had been quick to pull away, try to defuse the moment with a joke. Given the subject of the bulk of their conversation, John knew it would probably be one of those nights he barely slept unless he hit the bottle about five more rounds. The prospect of working with a splitting hangover was not appealing.

So he wasn’t proud of it, but some casual (at least for him) sex was a good substitute, provided it was understood John was no soft, pliable boy who wanted to be manhandled. When he’d pulled Ross into another kiss he was clearly letting him know things had to be on his terms.

Either way it was stupid, sex always changed things between people. Made them messier. That was why one nighters were one nighters. Get off then get out of each other's lives. Only now it was the morning after and he and Ross would be pulling double shifts today, and the next and so on. In any case they’d be around each other all the damn time and John should have just bucked up and handled his shit for the night instead of doing something that fundamentally altered the dynamic between them.

Add to that the fact that John hadn’t even been present during it all. In body, sure, but not in mind. He had spent the night chasing his need to understand his fated, only to emerge more confused than ever.

Now it was the morning after and all of John’s muscles were tight, his movements precise though stiff as he pulled his boxers back on before nudging Ross’ shoulder for him to wake up.

“I know I know,” Ross grumbled. “I’m getting up.” He brushed his hand against John’s thigh and that...that wasn’t going to make this easier. John moved away.

“Look Ross, I’m not trying to be an asshole. I just need to know we’re clear,” He had to keep his voice firm, leave no indication he might change his mind on this. “We both had fun and that was good. But this was a one time deal.”

Well now there it was. The awkward silence, the look on Ross’ face like he wasn’t sure if he should take offense or not, like he was analyzing everything they’d done the night before to see if there had been a clue John would let him down easy like he was doing now. And faint hurt. John hated that the most, Ross wasn’t a bad guy.

He felt more anxious waiting for Ross’ response. John shifted back and forth on his feet.

“ _Magsisi ka man at huli wala nang mangyayari._ ” Ross finally said, before giving John a sly smile.

“There is no need to cry over spilt milk.” John translated it as if he’d ever spoken Filipino a day in his life. _Cognizance fusion_ , another aspect of having a fated was being able to draw from their knowledge and experience.

Ross looked taken aback, but then he winked at John. “We’re good.”

The words were a relief, but John couldn’t fully relax still. He knew this was performance. “Okay. Want some eggs for the road?”

“No no, there’s a barista downtown at the corner cafe who will be heartbroken if I don’t have my bagel with my coffee.”

This was good, this was familiar. Still, his skin felt tight. John left for the kitchen. While he was focusing himself making some fried eggs, apparently he’d neglected to take his phone with and Ross found a certain tune to play along while he made his exit.

“ _I’m never gonna dance again, guilty feet have got no rhythm._ ” John could see Ross was haphazardly buttoning up his shirt and sauntering around with his bare ass out.

He laughed, but it was heavy with tension. “I hope you realize you’re a cliche.”

“Whose playlist is this on again?” Mercifully Ross didn’t try to lighten the mood further, busying himself getting into his clothes while John cooked and pretended everything was back to normal.

When Ross left George Michael was still crooning forlornly over his Iphone: _Should’ve known better than to cheat a friend, waste a chance that I’ve been given..._

“ _So I’m never gonna dance again,_ ” John murmured to himself as he flipped his eggs. “ _The way I danced with youuu_ …”

Reaching for a plate he turned around to find himself face to face with someone who looked like they’d walked straight out of a slasher movie.

John hurled his frying pan at the masked man in front of him, who ducked without concern. “Jesus fuck!” His follow up punch was just as easily evaded. Ridiculously he was still holding his spatula as if it were a viable line of defense. Definitely the least dignified he’d ever appeared in a fight. “Who-”

The man’s eyes peered all around small space of John’s apartment, as if taking in each detail. When they settled back on him they weren’t any less cold. He tilted his head, studying him. “I will kill you.”

“Excuse me?” Later on John would be embarrassed by the comical pitch of his voice.

“You are my greatest liability. For that you must die.”

And all at once he knew exactly who he was dealing with. Not a relief, but a reason to be a bit more pissed off than scared shitless. “Well I can’t say I was looking forward to meeting you either.” John tried to put as much space as possible between himself and his fated, even knowing he couldn’t hurt him while they were synchronized. Bane was only here with him psychically.

Still, viewing the world through his fated’s eyes was nothing compared to finally having an image of the man. Well over six foot he had a sense of presence that seemed to make John’s surrounding apartment smaller by comparison. He was bald, dressed in dark cargos and black sleeved shirt, with a broad, burly build. And also wore a face-mask that Hannibal Lecter would be envious of. His voice too, was unique, whatever filtering was in that headgear giving it a strange, otherworldly quality. Almost like a classic Bond villain and Darth Vader somehow managed to procreate.

The fact that he was able to be in this situation and still manage sarcasm bolstered him. “So, do you have an actual name or do you only respond to titles that sound like they’re knocked off the WWE?”

Bane’s eyebrow rose. “You mock me?”

“I’m not going to be cordial to someone who wants me dead.” John started tending to the mess on the floor. “And you fucked up my breakfast.”

Now he was trying to go about his morning routine without acknowledging the unnerving presence of his fated. “Interesting.” Was all Bane responded with.

John pointedly continued to ignore him until he’d finished. By the time he looked back up, Bane was gone.

He counted his breaths until he relaxed. “That was one hell of a first date.”


End file.
